with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.
Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.
Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
Use lipstick
to make people like you
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.
visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.
—